


Tourist Junk

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Action & Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Fluff, Ghouls, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1519571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lipstick-wearing ghoulette and a junk merchant; how crazy can you get?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tourist Junk

She hears him before she sees him, a portable radio blaring out the strains of ‘Butcher Pete’ so loudly that it fills the barren landscape surrounding the Museum. Taking one last drag off the pitiful stub of her cigarette, she lets it drop, grinding it under the heel of her boot.

Tourist. If the Lone Wanderer hadn’t clear out all the super mutants already—a task the Brotherhood assholes failed to do—he’d have already been dead three times over, or hauled off as a captive.

When she finally sees him, he doesn’t look like much either; cute, if you like ‘em smooth and young, but not hardy enough to survive a super mutant onslaught. Dark hair and a reckless grin, white teeth flashing as he gives loud wolf-whistle and a holler. “Hey, hey, pretty lady! Crazy Wolfgang’s got the finest junk in all the Wasteland, and as the proud owner of this caravan of crap, I humbly petition for entry to the fabulous city of Underworld!” He finishes with a sweeping bow, hair flopping over his eyes as he straightens up.

Willow can’t help it; she lets out a crackling laugh, grinning in turn. “You’ve got more flair than most of the tourists, I’ll give you that. You looking to trade, smoothskin?”

“Trade, bargain, tinker and otherwise offer my services, pretty lady. _All_ my services, as my junk is praised throughout the entirety of the Capital Wasteland! I’ve got just what you need, assuming you need any of my random assortment of—“

She beats him to the punch. “Junk.”

“ _I_ was going to say miscellaneous assortment of inventory, but then you had to go and get dirty-minded. Tsk tsk.” He even shakes his finger at her as he gives a dramatic sigh.

Willow snorts, pulling out another cigarette. “What the hell. Traders are always welcome, though we haven’t had much besides whatever Quinn can scavenge. What brings you out here, tourist?”

“Touring, of course. The heart of our great nation’s capital, a thriving community for the arts and history; what is there not to love?” he replies, extending his arms to take in the entirety of the grey buildings and shattered pavement all around. He even spins slowly, sighing lustily as if they are truly once more in a thriving prewar metropolis. “And the Wanderer’s said that there are opportunities here for an enterprising merchant such as myself, including that you have a need for scrap metal, odds and ends, and all the other little privileges that are associated with handling my junk. However—“ And here he grins rakishly again, dark eyes dancing with delight as he leans in confidentially. “The Wanderer never mentioned there was such a pretty lady guarding the gates. What’s your name, gorgeous?”

“Willow.”

“Willow.” He says it slowly, as if savoring the taste on his lips. “Well, beautiful, you’ve got the most _gorgeous_ lips. Red is just your color, you know?”

Snorting, Willow waves him in. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He claps a hand over his heart, staggering back as if wounded. “Well, sure I do! But I _mean_ it this time!”

“Just go in.”

Watching him leave—and damn, shame to say goodbye to that face but fun to watch him leave. He even glances over his shoulder, licking his lips mock-coquettishly and giving his ass one last shake before the door swings shut. Willow does not even bother attempting to look away or hide her interest; what the hell. It was fun to look. Even more fun to flirt, even if it was with a crazy smoothskin—even with some of the fine-looking ghoul men (including that silent mountain guarding the Ninth Circle, or that sweetheart Winston)there is a certain appeal to intact skin and eyes that have not gone milky with age. Even if it’s all part of a ‘crazy’ persona, it feels nice to feel beautiful again.

And hell. At least he appreciated the lipstick.

* * *

 

He is the first of the many traders who start making stops at Underworld, but he remains Willow’s favorite—the most likely to stand outside and shoot the shit, to flirt outrageously and challenge her to card games, to bring out sips of whiskey and to sing bawdy songs under the moonlight—

But what really wins her over is the lipstick.

It’s been a little longer than usual before she sees him; nearly a month, and even if she wouldn’t admit it, she was starting to worry. Even if the eccentricity was just a persona, the Wasteland could be dangerous. Especially for a traveling trader, even one with the finest junk around. So when he finally comes in (and again, she hears him before she sees him, but this time the radio is blaring ‘Civilization’ and he’s belting along), she feels a knot in her stomach slowly relax.

“Hey hey, pretty lady! I hope you haven’t been too lonely without the chance to handle my junk,” he beams, running a tongue over his lips and waggling his eyebrows lasciviously. “But I’ve got a present for the loveliest of ladies!” He reaches into one of the many pockets scattered on his jacket, but Willow doesn’t quite catch more than a gleam of gold before he hides his hands behind his back, shoulders shifting as he juggles whatever it is back and forth. “Pick a hand, any hand!”

“Is this a present or a guessing game?” she asks, feeling the muscles of her forehead twitch upward. Even if her brows are mostly non-existent these days, some expressions remain instinctive.

“Both! If you guess which hand, you get the present. If you guess wrong, I want you to put the present on me.”

She is starting to get a glimmer of what it might be, but laughs anyway. “Fine, junk-meister. That one.” She points to her left; his right hand.

He proudly flourishes an empty hand, then brings out a square tube in his left hand. “Guessed wrong, pretty lady. So as forfeit, I demand you wear this right now.” His hand presses to hers, forcing her to accept it, but lingers just a little longer. He feels smooth and warm, faintly moist with sweat. She becomes keenly aware of how dry and flaky her skin is by comparison, but he does not flinch away. In fact, he gently dips his head to kiss the pulse of her wrist.

Tugging her hand away, she examines the little tube. Grinning, she screws the cap off, admiring the vibrant ruby shimmer inside. “Lipstick. Where did you find this?”

“Scavenging. Took a bit of work, but only the best for such a pretty lady. But I bet it’ll look even better on you than in the tube.”

“I don’t have a mirror.”

“Then use my eyes.” He bats his ridiculously long lashes at her, then widens his eyes to the point it looks as if they’re about to pop out. She manages to put the lipstick on without laughing too hard, though she can’t accurately examine her results. But he still grins wolfishly, turning his cheek.

“Lay one on me, pretty lady? I want to wear it too.”

She is tempted to touch his chin, squeeze and twist him so she can press her lips to his—but that would cross a boundary, even if they play-flirt. So she instead puckers up and gently rests her hand against the back of his neck, leaning in to press her freshly-painted lips to his cheek and breathing him in. He smells fresh and clean, even with the faint tang of old leather and gunpowder clinging to his skin. Her cheek brushes his as she tilts her mouth side to side, rolling so as to make the broadest, darkest mark possible. When she finally withdraws, the scarlet lip-print is bright as a brand.

“Thank you pretty lady. I’ll wear it with pride.”

He still wears her mark when he leaves Underworld the next day, beaming bright as the sun and waving at her before he and his brahmin turn out of sight.

* * *

 

Willow’s been enduring gentle teasing since that, from everyone from sweet Carol to that asshole Crowley, but it’s difficult to care too much. She just thinks about the feel of his skin under her lips, the softness even with the faint bit of stubble cutting through the layers of intact epidermis… and the lipstick, of course. Wearing the fresh tube feels like an indirect kiss, and sometimes she hums as she puts it on, eyeing herself in the mirror and blowing a kiss to her own reflection. It’s nice, a little piece of normalcy from before the radiation hit and her skin started peeling.

But she’s not going to delude herself into thinking that a wandering smoothskin trader is madly in love with a ghoulette who tastes of dust and dry rot, whose lips are flaking and whose hair gets thinner and sparser with each brushing. She might not be a prewar pin-up anymore, but she’s still a damn good shot and a reliable sentry.

So when she hears the distant strains of ‘Let’s Go Sunning,’ she curses. Only Wolfgang is crazy enough to keep the radio on blast to announce his presence, but because he hasn’t been by in two weeks, he is unaware of the super mutants who just moved into the trenches nearby—and even if they ignore ghouls, Wolfgang won’t be so lucky.

She immediately goes into action, whipping her laser rifle from her back and edging forward. Shoulder pressed against the wall of the museum, she peers around the corner. Three of the mutants are out today, already slowly lumbering towards the distant merchant. While they all carry their immense super sledges, only two have hunting rifles—a small point in Willow’s favor. Licking her lips, she tastes dust and grit plus the plastic tang of her makeup. Then she raises her sights, exhaling slowly before popping the trigger.

Perfect shot. The first one drops, listing forward as the red beam sizzles its way through skin and skull to the brain beneath. But the other two mutants are aware of her now; and even if they normally leave the ghouls alone, the ghouls normally leave them alone—a delicate live and let live, but now she’s gone and screwed it all up by taking one of them out.

What the hell. Too late to die young and leave a beautiful corpse, but at least she can keep Wolfgang looking pretty for a while longer.

So one charges wildly at her, raising his sledge and bellowing. The earth echoes beneath each heavy footfall, but Willow coolly stands her ground, aiming for the tight triangle of his upper chest and throat. She isn’t sure she’d be able to pop another headshot while he’s moving so rapidly, but at least the laser’s sizzle does the job, burning through flesh and arteries before that one drops too.

There is still the third with his hunting rifle though, and now he is taking aim. So Willow ducks back behind the wall, hearing the bullets hit the stone moments after she does so. A few shattered chips spray against the ground, but she breathes in and out. Slowly. Calmly. Trying to remember that as long as he’s firing at her, that gives Wolfgang a chance to load up his weapons—he must have them, right? She remembers seeing him with an assault rifle, and a traveling merchant must have ways of guarding his wares—but there are the other mutants nearby, and if they hear the ruckus…

“Ha ha! Found you!” the mutant bellows, rounding the corner. Shit. She had been so busy worrying about the crazy smoothskin she completely forgot to pay attention, oblivious to the shuddering steps coming _closer_ rather than chasing out after Wolfgang…

The mutant drops his hunting rifle, instead brandishing his sledge with a wicked grin that shows broken teeth. Willow skitters backward, firing wildly and unable to aim in this close proximity. A few shots hit, but no more than superficial burns against the thickness of the monster’s green skin. Then his hammer strikes down on the barrel of her rifle, wrenching it from her grip.

Without a gun and with the super mutant bearing down, Willow turns to run—not into the museum, of course, but around the walled square of the metro station. The mutant might be big, but he’s clumsy, and Willow’s got a good sprint in her. Ghouls don’t really sweat the way that smoothskins do—not enough intact sweat glands in order to perspire—but she feels her breathing grow ragged as she ducks around the low wall, frantically reaching to her boot for the combat knife she keeps hidden as a holdout weapon. The mutant is still lumbering behind her, but is unable to turn the corners as quickly—something she uses to her advantage as she spins back, the knife clutched in her hand.

Range, now—range is both her enemy and her friend. She needs to get close enough to disembowel the beast, but not so close as to be easily grappled. Yet in order to get close, she has to pass through the range of that wildly swinging sledgehammer…

She licks her lips again. The plastic taste of the lipstick reminds her that Wolfgang is still out there.

So she bides her time, feeling the sun against her back and baking what’s left of her flesh under her leather jacket. Ducks back, bobbing and weaving until the angry mutant overextends himself, and then she ducks under his guard quicker than a feral dog. His throat is bare, exposed—and she drives her knife in to the hilt. With a choked gurgle, he falls forward, blood spraying out and lips moving as the brain does not quite realize the body’s dead yet—

But of course, the heavy asshole’s falling _forward_. Shit. Willow can’t move back in time, scrambling to the side even as eight hundred plus pounds of mutant falls on top of her. Her skull hits the ground with a harsh crack, and she tries not to gasp, aware that if she exhales then she won’t be able to breathe in again, the weight of the warm carcass already crushing her…

“Willow! Damn, baby, gotta get you out from there!” Wolfgang shoves ineffectively at the dead weight of the mutant, then just grits his teeth and grabs her under the shoulders, doing a decidedly ungentlemanly drag as he pulls her from beneath the dead super mutant. Willow is too grateful for the assistance to complain, even as she feels the pavement scrape away another layer of skin from her arms, leaving raw livid patches against her flayed-looking flesh.

“Stupid tourist,” she slurs, the words thick and heavy in her mouth. “Should’ve known better than to keep blasting that radio all the time.”

“Well, I got a hell of a guardian angel looking out for me. Shit, Willow—will the rest of ‘em follows us inside if we duck in?”

“Any of them chasing you?” she asks raspily. It’s still hard to think, but now it’s because Wolfgang’s got her head pillowed in his lap, rather than because of the knock to her conker.

“No. I think it was just those three. I didn’t get any of the others’ attention…”

“We’ll be fine. Let’s go in, but gotta get Charon to cover sentry duty…”

Actions suit words, and then Quinn is trying to take her to see Doctor Barrows, but somehow Wolfgang wedges himself under her arm and refuses to leave. He stays by her side, squeezing her hand throughout Barrows’ brief exam even when the doctor irritably attempts to wave him away. He stays by her side as he walks her to Carol’s place for a meal, declaring that food will serve better than any medicine. He stays by her side when she eventually begs off to go to sleep, walking her to her room and standing by her as she kicks off her boots.

She’s not actually going to strip down in front of him, of course—as much fun as it is to flirt with a smoothskin, there is only so much exposed flesh and sinew even a ‘crazy’ trader can take.

So she politely offers him an out. “Just going to sleep, tourist. Thanks for the help, but I don’t need you to count sheep for me.”

He smiles, and it’s strangely sad, almost wistful. “You might not need me, pretty lady, but I sure need you. You’re right, it was stupid of me to keep blasting that radio—but you were still there to help haul my ass out of the fire. Even if the muties wouldn’t have gone after you, you risked it all to help me out.”

“Don’t swell your head, smoothskin. You gave me lipstick, after all.” She cracks a smile, trying to play it off as a joke, but he just leans forward. She can count each individual lash now, and even see small golden flecks in the darkness of his eyes.

“Is being a smoothskin such a bad thing?” he asks quietly.

Taken aback, Willow purses her lips (and thinks that the lipstick must be ragged on the edges, lip creases creating cracks in the pigment) and shakes her head.

“I know I’m not… as big or rugged as some of the ghoul lads around here, but pretty lady—you are very pretty, you know. Plus smart as a whip, and tough enough to take on a super mutant with just a knife. The whole package.”

“Are you sure you didn’t get a love-tap from one of the sledge hammers?” she asks, twisting her head to the side to deflect his words.

“I like you a lot, Willow. So I gotta know if you’d even think about kissing a crazy smoothskin trader.” Even if she knows his ‘crazy’ persona is a marketing ploy, looking at his face with its genuine concern, the way he smiles so hopefully… hell, the smoothskin’s got to be at least little crazy to think about this with a ghoulette.

But she likes crazy.

So she leans in to kiss him, trying not to think about how she must taste like dust and dry rot and plastic—and focuses on the clean taste of him, his mouth wet beneath hers, the gentle brush of his nose against what’s left of her nose, the way he groans low and happy in the back of his throat, and his breath catching against her cheek.

It is a short kiss, but packs a punch. And he looks intrigued, enthusiastic even—ready for more. So Willow squares her shoulders back, grinning as she realizes she just smeared her lipstick all over his mouth.

“So… ready to show me your junk?”


End file.
